


Letters From a Prat

by ncfan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Estrangement, Family, Gen, Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all wrote to Percy or got a letter from him at least once, even if none of them wanted to admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Subliminal Messaging

**Author's Note:**

> There will be seven chapters, one for Ron, Ginny, the Twins, Bill, Charlie, Arthur and Molly. All of them will be rather short. The first up is Ron's, providing a perhaps non-canonical but much-cherished suspicion of mine concerning the letter Percy sent his brother during Order of the Phoenix.

Percy knew—knows—that Ronald Weasley is not even at the best of times the soul of discretion, and that he's more prone to getting himself into trouble than is perhaps advisable. If anything, Ron is ridiculously reckless; that's common knowledge.

Well, this year, Percy knows full well that Ron can't _afford_ to be reckless.

So he puts quill to parchment and writes.

When he's done, Percy looks at his work and gnaws on his lip for just a little bit, wondering if this will help at all, if he's doing the right thing. More than anything though, he wonders if Ron will get the message he's trying to convey.

He can't afford to be open with his brother, not entirely. It's common knowledge to anyone at the Ministry that Dolores Umbridge has made it a practice to open the student body's mail while installed at Hogwarts; Percy's flirted with political suicide and potential unemployment before and he has no desire to do so again.

There's really no way Ron won't see what he's trying to tell him. Percy's laid it on so thick that Ron will have to see that the letter's contents are too unctuous and sycophantic to be his actual opinions.

Percy _is_ proud that Ron managed to become a Prefect. To be honest, he's a bit surprised too, but he always knew Ron had the potential despite all the troublemaking he involved himself with. He _does_ think that Umbridge will be in charge of Hogwarts very soon; Dumbledore will have to make way for that woman whether he likes it or not.

Percy does _not_ on the other hand, think that Madam Umbridge is a "delightful" woman; he doesn't know anyone that does. However, there is no shortage of unsavory rumors following her around, and Ron would do better not to make trouble with her; personally, Percy would do better not to make trouble with her too, which is why he uses veiled language.

Nor does he think that Harry Potter is a rabid lunatic. Definitely either lying or seriously deluded as to Voldemort's return, but not a lunatic, and probably not dangerous (Percy can't be sure). The mention of a 'mere technicality' lays it on even thicker for Ron, trying desperately to get the hint across.

He looks at his work and sighs.

Then he signs it.

_Your brother,_

_Percy_

The moment he does so, he wishes he hadn't said anything about their parents, but it's too late now—he _has_ to get that letter to Ron as soon as possible.

As Percy watches Hermes flies away, he starts to gnaw on his lip—such a nervous habit; he must learn to stop it, really.

It's all subliminal messaging; he prays Ron will be able to read between the lines. All it takes is a little subtlety.

Then, Percy hides his face in his hands and groans.

Ron _isn't_ going to get it.

Ronald Weasley, as Percy knows very well, is about as subtle as a troll. He wouldn't understand what subtlety was if it danced naked in front of him singing "I've Got the Magic in Me".


	2. Gred and Forge's Quandary

_Dear FP,_

_Writing this letter we assume that you already know of our departure from Hogwarts. Personally, we can't say that there was anyone who didn't see it coming a mile away. Even you, as pathetic and cut off from the family as you are, must have known we have no need or desire for N.E.W.T.s, and that this was completely inevitable. We have made our triumphant exit and have left the school in as much chaos as it's ever been, with a miniature swamp and sentient firecrackers as highlights; you know, normal stuff._

_However, we have now arrived at a quandary._

_As you are probably also aware, we still have every intention of opening Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, our joke shop; the mail delivery system is already going fantastically. Our entire lives have led to this; a dream like that can't just be thrown to the wayside, you know._

_The problem isn't funds. Trust us, we have the money; you're the last person we'd beg for money from._

_You see, our erstwhile brother, we are in need of contacts. It's hard to get space in Diagon Alley, and what we need are associates who have the necessary clout with which to allow us to establish premises in Diagon Alley. You, who seem to be so well-connected in the Ministry of Magic if your past boastings are anything to go by, could perhaps help us out here. What do you say?_

_Your former brothers,_

_Gred and Forge Weasley_

_P.S. Say hello to your girlfriend from us. Tell her she'll get a 10% discount when the store opens if you help us._

Percy gets the letter and, frankly, he doubts it's a coincidence that a migraine starts to form in his right temple about the time he gets to "quandary". He sighs, not sure whether, in a situation like this, he should laugh or scream in inarticulate rage and then set the letter on fire. Doing both has a certain appeal, he has to admit.

"Who's the letter from?" Penelope calls from the bedroom, coming back out with her fair freshly brushed and what little makeup she wears to work washed from her face.

"The twins," Percy mutters, tempted to rip the letter into tiny little pieces. There's a creak of springs as Penelope sits no the couch beside him.

She frowns a little. "May I see it?"

"Yeah, sure," comes the groaned response. Percy rubs his temples and counts himself blessed to have a girlfriend who stocks Muggle aspirin in the medicine cabinet.

As she reads on, the furrows in Penelope's brow grow deeper and an expression of unadulterated incredulity grows on her face. "Well Fred and George are in fine form today, aren't they?"

"I can't believe they actually did it," Percy groans, covering his eyes with his hands. "I always knew they were lunatics, but this time takes the cake. I mean, have they lost their minds? They have no prospects, none! How long do they expect that ridiculous joke shop of theirs to last?"

Meanwhile, Penelope notices the salutation and squints. "What does "FP" mean?"

"I have no idea."

"What are you going to do now?"

Percy pushes his glasses up his nose and adopts an especially grim expression. "I'm going to write them back."

-0-

_Dear Fred and George,_

_Only the two of you would insult me repeatedly and ask for my help in virtually the same breath. You have never been lacking in audacity, even if you do appear to possess even less common sense than I thought you did._

_First, let me just say that I condemn your behavior utterly. You have left Hogwarts with no N.E.W.T.s and no prospect of respectable employment if this little venture of yours fails, which I have the suspicion that it eventually will. Also, the actions you have taken against Madam Umbridge qualifies as assault and given her influence you'll be lucky not to find yourselves in Azkaban if she ever has the occasion to turn her attention towards you again._

_Second, since you seem to be so determined to go through with your joke shop, I'll see what I can do, provided that you really are serious about this. Keep on the lookout for further owls._

_Sincerely,_

_Percy Weasley_

_P.S. Penelope says hello and says that there's absolutely nothing she could do with a ten percent discount to a joke shop, and wonders why she would even want one. Also, what on Earth does "FP" stand for?_

George, who at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron has read this letter aloud, suddenly finds the letter ripped out of his hands by his brother Fred, who apparently can't believe what he's just heard and wants to read the letter for himself.

"He agreed? Percival Ignatius Weasley, the stick-in-the-mud black sheep of our family, has actually agreed to help us open a joke shop?" Fred demands, gaping at his younger twin. "Are we sure it's not an imposter?"

George shakes his head. "No, it's Percy alright. This is his handwriting, no mistake; he still can't quite get the cursive "z's" right."

Fred grins. "Brilliant."

"I know."

The turn their attention to the postscript.

"Oh well, her loss."

"Do you suppose we should tell 'im "FP" stands for "Family Pariah"?" George muses speculatively, taking a sip out of his cup of Butterbeer.

"Nah. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, I thought it meant "Family Prat"."

"No, _you_ said…"


	3. Dragon Dung Again

Being as far removed from the rest of his family as he is, Charlie by necessity has found himself far removed from the heart of the Percy vs. The World conflict that has shaken the Weasley family to its roots.

The sheer physical distance between Britain and Romania (roughly two thousand, three hundred and sixty seven kilometers, Charlie tells himself every night) and the fact that he doesn't live under the same roof as their wounded and furious father allows Charlie to take a more detached, objective look at Percy's break with the family. As such, Charlie readily admits to himself that he's probably the only one who doesn't have a problem with Percy leaving the Burrow. Yes, Percy got pretty out of line during his row with Dad, but from what Charlie's been told Arthur wasn't exactly the picture of polite decorum himself that night.

As for Percy's "non-conformist" views… Well, Charlie knows adolescent rebellion when he sees it (even if it is a few years late) and he knows that Percy will see sense on his own eventually; he's a smart kid. It won't be easy for him, but these things never are.

All in all, the question Charlie most often asks himself, apart form _"When are they sending more supplies?"_ goes about like this: _"How the Hell is this any different from when I packed up and moved to Romania when I was eighteen?"_ And if he wasn't afraid of incurring his family's wrath, Charlie would ask that. The conclusion he ends up coming to is that, probably, everyone expected Percy to live with their parents without complaint for the rest of his life.

That's the thing. No one expected it to be Percy, even if the warning signs were plain as day in their face. No one expected it to be Percy, but Charlie could see it coming from two thousand, three hundred and sixty seven kilometers away.

It's nearly midnight now in Romania, and Charlie's not sleeping. He's awake inside his tiny house on the reserve's housing compound, going over his notes and praying that the sputtering oil lamp won't go out again; he's been forbidden to use magical fire as a light source ever since he accidentally set fire to the housing compound. The Chinese Fireball's got a cold again and every time it sneezes everybody has to dodge the gigantic fireball that comes out of its mouth. Stokowski's asked him to check and see if he can find a different way to treat a cold in dragons, because _no one's_ willing to use the old method and risk getting their arm ripped off anymore.

Just when Charlie's simultaneously nodding off and seriously considering looking into another line of work, he hears a tap at the window. Brown eyes snap to the glass and an unblinking pair of yellow eyes stare back.

The exhausted screech owl hops on to Charlie's table, well away from the oil lamp, and holds out its leg—a letter is attached there—clearly having no intention of leaving until it's well-rested. "Well don't worry," Charlie murmurs, taking the letter and stroking the owl's back. "Some of the raw meat we feed the dragons should do just fine for you."

He opens the letter, and his brow furrows when he sees familiar handwriting.

_Dear Charlie,_

_I hate to have to ask you this again, but I lost the letter you sent the last time I had this problem and I don't know where it is._

_Can you tell me how to get the smell of dragon dung out of clothes? I would really appreciate it if you could send a letter soon._

_Your brother,_

_Percy Weasley_

Charlie snorts.

Sounds like the twins are hard at work again. This is probably the shortest letter Percy's ever sent _anyone_ , let alone him, and Charlie can practically taste the panic in his words.

_Poor little brother._

He sits down at his desk and starts to rummage around for a quill, his ink pot and some parchment.

The first paragraph is probably code, Charlie realizes, for " _I left the letter at the Burrow and I have no intention of going back to get it."_ Well, that's understandable; Charlie didn't go back to the Burrow for his dragonhide gloves after leaving and just bought new ones once he got to Romania, saying they'd gotten lost in transit. And Percy's got far better reason than him not to want to go back to the childhood abode.

Ah, well. It might get him in trouble with the family (Charlie knows Mum and Dad want to present a united front, and that's all fine and well, but _really_ ), but Charlie can and will help out a brother in need, even if he has been blacklisted.

Working with dragons, he knows _exactly_ how awful the smell of dragon dung is.

Charlie smiles as he bites the nub of his quill.

_Dear Percy,_

_The twins just won't let off, will they? Anyway, I know how you feel—I got dragon dung splattered all over my trousers just last week and I still_ _can't get the stains to come out. As for getting the smell of dragon dung out of your clothes, it is important that you do exactly as I tell you…_


	4. Meat Pies for Mum

On the morning of October 30, 1996, Molly Weasley doesn't feel terribly motivated to celebrate her forty-seventh birthday. When the evening comes Bill, Arthur, Fred and George are coming over for a supper. Personally, Molly hopes Bill doesn't bring that irritating little trollop of a fiancée with him; Fleur Delacour is just the sort of thing that would sour the mood of even a joyous birth.

There's a war going on and, if it's possible, Molly is more terrified at the prospect of the Second War than she was at the First. She knew what was coming this time; she hadn't had _that_ hanging over her when the First War broke out so many years ago. All she can think about is how long it's going to be before one of her children is hurt or injured.

_Can't be long now. Oh, what am I going to do?_

Normally, Molly leaves the knitting to the enchanted knitting needles. They don't do the best work in the world but what comes out is inevitably sturdy. Lately, however, Molly has been doing the knitting herself, with her own hands. It helps her to calm down somewhat, and it at least takes her mind off of things, if only for a little while.

Not forever, though.

A sharp rap comes on the window and Molly jumps in her cushioned chair, immediately reaching for her wand. Her heart is still pounding when her eyes dart to the window and she sees that it's only a rather weary looking screech owl perched on the windowsill, holding a letter in its beak.

_Just an owl._

When Molly opens the windowsill she can see that the owl is also in possession of a large, lumpy package. She takes the letter and the package from the owl and it immediately flies off, winging its way back north.

 _A birthday present, I suppose_. Just to be safe, Molly casts a spell Arthur taught her and holds her wand over the brown paper-wrapped package and the letter. When the wand doesn't cast yellow sparks she knows they're both safe.

Molly tears open the envelope.

_Mother,_

_Happy birthday. Penelope and I decided to try to make you something this year. Since neither of us ever learned how to cook with magic and I'm not entirely sure how to use the Muggle appliances in the kitchen, the results may or may not be something that is edible. Please accept my apologies if it is not._

_Sincerely,_

_Percy Weasley and Penelope Clearwater_

The second name is written with a different hand from Percy's: every bit as bold and elaborate, but with the letters spaced closer together.

Frowning, Molly undoes the thin, twine-like thread holding the brown paper together.

Sitting inside is a meat pie, a little lumpy, a bit lopsided. It certainly does look like it was made by someone (or two people) not at all experienced with cooking.

It's a measly thing, but Molly can't help but smile. Nice to have some sense of Percy extending an olive branch at last, even if it is with a lumpy meat pie.


	5. OWL Workbooks

When she recognizes the owl tapping at her window, there exists in Ginny the strong temptation to shoo the offending bird away with unfriendly hands or a jab from her wand. Ginny does not want to read any letter of _his_ ; she thought the mashed parsnips yesterday would have made that clear.

However, Hermes is much like his master: annoyingly persistent. Hermes raps on the window for about a minute and a half before just sitting on the sill patiently, staring at Ginny intently and all-around giving the air of being unimpressed. The message is clear: _I'm not going away until you open this window and take his letter._

Ginny sighs, shaking her head and getting up to go to the window. No use punishing the owl for being the pet of an irredeemable prat.

Hermes flies off as soon as Ginny removes the letter from its position tied to his leg. He's much like Percy in that respect as well; he doesn't stick around for very long. _Well, they say pets take on characteristics of their owners,_ Ginny thinks absently as she goes back to the bed. It's late and she's tired.

If there was any doubt who the letter was from, that doubt is dispelled from Ginny's mind when she sees _Ginny Weasley_ written out on the front of the envelope. The letters are bold, thick, and dark—Percy has a tendency to press down hard with the quill when he writes. Every letter perfectly orderly and correct; that's Percy's handwriting, plain as day, and, holding the letter, unopened, in her hand, Ginny frowns darkly at it.

She doesn't want to read any letter sent by Percy. Ginny is still angry, has never stopped being angry even if she no longer thinks about it every day and her anger no longer colors her vision of everything. Percy isn't worth that sort of anger, she tells herself; a disloyal son is worthy of nothing but contempt, she tells herself. And as for the little stab of pain that still comes up every once in a while?

Ginny ignores that altogether.

Eventually, Ginny's curiosity wins out over any sort of embargo on all things Percy. Even if it's nothing but drivel, she's curious to see what Percy has to say. A fingernail is slipped under the envelope flap and Ginny pulls the letter out so she can read it.

_Dear Ginny,_

_I know that you'll be taking your OWLs in the upcoming year. I'm sure you'll do well, but if you want, my OWL workbooks should still be in my room. The workbooks will be in the third drawer from the top of the cabinet near the bed; you can use them if you want a study aid._

_Your brother,_

_Percy_

For a moment, Ginny stares down at the brief, succinct letter—funny; Percy is usually a bit more… _verbose_ than this—clutched tightly in her hands. Out of all the things she expected Percy to write about, this wasn't one of them. It's just a little hard to breathe; Ginny has to work to swallow.

Then, she recovers, and slowly and deliberately balls up the letter and throws it at the wall opposite her bed.

 _I don't want any of his workbooks,_ Ginny tells herself, and all the while her eyes sting.


	6. Don't Ask Why

At the Ministry, Arthur has found himself absolutely inundated with work these days. As the days wear on and the shadow of war grows longer, more people become frantic searching for amulets and anything that might help protect them in the times to come. Of course, waiting to prey on the fear of the masses are what Arthur has affectionately termed 'The Buzzards of the Wizarding World.' That's where he comes in.

 _I hope nobody's stumbled on any more of those cursed rings._ That's the new trend this week, rings that make the user's arms lock up. Though these are hardly the most lethal objects to have crossed Arthur's path, the rings have been posing not-insignificant problems.

The rings are, thanks to the nature of the curse placed on them, nearly impossible to get off—as Arthur understands, a wizard trying to help his friend had to blast one off. Both spent the next week in St. Mungo's. There are several quite similar circulating around the Ministry—some poor witch in York lost a finger.

Ever since he became the head of the newly-formed Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects, Arthur has gone into work before dawn most days only to be bombarded with stories like these. Truthfully, it's starting to get rather wearing.

 _What's happened to me? I never used to dread going into work like this._ As he sits down at his desk, Arthur eyes the stacks of parchment overflowing on the oak surface and rubs his forehead wearily. He used to love going into the office, used to love hearing the story of the latest artefact that had come into his possession. There was a story behind every cursed teacup, after all, a story behind every rubber duck, and what use is a story if it's never told? Arthur wanted to hear them all.

Now, he dreads seeing the newest report, dreads hearing the latest story. Arthur doesn't want to hear of the injuries, doesn't want to hear of the betrayals. He always knew that there were devious minds in the world, people who would leap at the chance to take advantage of another's fear, but never before has it been thrust in his face like this. _Don't suppose I ever really wanted to face it._

As Arthur prepares to start sifting through the reports again, sifting through the paperwork that apparently no one else can handle, he notices something out of place.

It's a folded-up slip of parchment, lying square in the middle of his desk where Arthur couldn't miss it if he wanted to. Apparently someone wanted him to see something.

Others would be cautious about picking up the parchment, let alone about reading it. Others would prod the parchment with their wands to check for some sort of curse or hex; no one can be too careful these days. However, Arthur isn't like other people. He doesn't want to think that, if someone was trying to hex him, that they wouldn't just wait to ambush him in his office in person. He unfolds the paper and, with furrowed brow and adjusted glasses, reads the small, hastily scrawled note inside.

' _Don't go into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes today. Don't ask why.'_

Given the sounds of screaming coming from the general direction of said department that were emanating through the halls when Arthur arrived at work today, he thinks he can hazard a guess as to why he should avoid the department.

Though the note has not been signed, Arthur would be a liar if he said he doesn't know who sent it. He would recognize that handwriting—just a little elaborate, just a little pompous—anywhere.

For a moment, Arthur wonders why, all things considered, Percy would bother sending him a note warning him to stay away from a department in chaos. After everything that's happened, it's a little startling that he would even bother to exert such consideration.

After that moment has passed, Arthur decides to just take it at face value. He smiles a little, and manages to hold on to that smile as he focuses his attention on joyless work.


	7. Wedding Photos

_Dear Bill,_

_Please accept my sincerest congratulations on your upcoming wedding. I hope that you and your future wife will be very happy. If you don't mind me asking, could you send wedding photos some time in the future?_

_Your brother,_

_Percy Weasley_

Bill grimaces when he reads the brief letter supplied by a familiar screech owl. _I wonder if Percy's letters have been getting increasingly terse over the years, or if this is a new habit for him._ The act of grimacing pulls at the fresh scars on his face and he winces. With dutiful application of pain-relieving potions, there's very little pain anymore, but sometimes, if he's not careful, he'll get a dull jolt to remind him to be more careful.

The wedding is only a few weeks away now, and frankly, Bill's not sure if everyone's happier about the fact that he's getting married or because a wedding will give them an excuse to eat, drink, and be merry. Merriment has been in short supply lately; the wedding will provide an acceptable outlet for them to finally taste joy again.

_Percy really ought to be in on that, too._

From his perch on the table, just a foot away, Hermes lets out an impatient squawk, looking distinctly ruffled and even a little indignant at the wait. Bill nearly laughs to see the owl's display, stopping only because it would pull on the lacerations on his face. "You know, you look just like him when you do that." Hermes is far from placated with that pronouncement, and squawks again, more insistently, if that's even possible.

"Alright. Just to please you…" Bill pens a short note back, just a few word, and after sealing the parchment up in an envelope, ties the letter to the screech owl's proffered leg. Without further adieu, Hermes flies back out through the open window, and Bill gets up to close it with a sigh. If the wind blows out the single candle he has lit, the room will be doused in total darkness, and Bill doesn't fancy the prospect of having to feel for his wand in the dark.

If that letter reaches its destination and Percy acts in the way Bill hopes he will, Bill supposes that he could get in trouble with the rest of his family. The stance of the Weasley clan as a whole towards Percy is still one of frosty disapproval—well, excluding Molly, and maybe Charlie; Bill sees so little of Charlie that he can't be sure. Bill isn't even sure how Percy found out that he and Fleur were getting married to start with; he's sure Percy didn't find out from any of his siblings, or his parents.

Bill knows he could get in trouble. However, Bill isn't terribly inclined to care. It's his wedding; he and Fleur will do things how they like, and Bill doubts Fleur will care too much about what he's just done.

This has gone on long enough. By now, heads have cooled and Bill is sure that everyone in the family knows that it's not a matter of who was right. Both Percy and Arthur crossed lines that they shouldn't have, and it's only wounded pride on the parts of both father and son, and the family's loyalty the former, that keeps them all from admitting so.

 _We've all suffered enough for this breach, and honestly, we might not all be_ alive _anymore before the year is out._ _It's time to start to make some strides towards reconciliation_.

-0-

Hermes returns to the London flat called 'home' shortly after dawn, returning to his roost with nothing short of relief. The only one currently up, Percy takes the letter from him, reading with a furrowed brow and careful to be quiet.

' _Who said you weren't invited?'_

Despite himself, he smiles.


End file.
